


A Place for Ourselves

by Piaculum



Series: The Cadence of Our Hearts [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bull's Chargers, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Formerly Tranquil Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Magisterium (Dragon Age), Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Protective The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Rape Recovery, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piaculum/pseuds/Piaculum
Summary: Two years after Corypheus's defeat Dorian is exhausted from navigating Tevinter politics, The Iron Bull is taking mercenary contracts all across Thedas, and Inquisitor Lavellan is struggling to keep the Inquisition (and himself) together. All three had hoped that the Exalted Council would provide them with a much-needed peaceful reunion, but the world seems to have other plans.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Iron Bull/Male Lavellan, Iron Bull/Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Mage Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: The Cadence of Our Hearts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789060
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	1. In Dire Judgement

**Author's Note:**

> Canticle of Shartan 9:13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story continues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canticle of Exaltations 1:02
> 
> Also, a quick PSA in case you missed it in the first work: I’m using “qunari” to reference Bull’s race but “Qunari” (capital ‘Q’) to reference followers of the Qun

“Go back whence you came, son of kings. Nothing but misery awaits you here”

-Yavana, _Dragon Age: The Silent Grove_ Vol.4

* * *

"No, Inquisitor Lavellan, our official response to the Exalted Council cannot be 'fuck you'," Josephine sighed. The ambassador to the Inquisition looked just about ready to hit Thel'hen over the head with her clipboard if not for being so entirely exhausted; she had been conducting international negotiations for over two months now and the poor Antivan was in dire need of a break. Ferelden wished for the Inquisition to be dismantled, Orlais wanted it to be controlled, and the Chantry was caught in the middle. The combined efforts of Divine Victoria and Josephine had ensured that the Inquisition would be able to partake in the negotiations, however Thel'hen would quite honestly rather throw himself into a Fade Rift than have to deal with the grandiose egos of the countries' diplomats. His last trip to the Winter Palace had been stressful to say the least, and he was not excited for another trip to Halamshiral.

"Why nooooot?" Thel'hen whined, clearly playing-up his childish behaviour.

"Because," Josephine replied, "the Inquisition still has work to do. There are still reports of Fade Rifts coming in from remote parts of Thedas, we are no closer to finding out how Corpheyus got that orb in the first place, and every country on the continent looks to us as a strong political authority. Being disbanded now would create a power vacuum that would leave southern Thedas in chaos."

Thel'hen suddenly felt a million little needles shoot through his left hand and just barely had time to mask his grimace as he crossed his arms in a desperate attempt to hide his hand. The Anchor had always been uncomfortable, but over the past few years it had started to become painful. The damn thing would flare up unexpectedly, causing Thel'hen to develop the habit of wearing leather gloves at all times of the day so as to block the green light his hand would emit seemingly at random from his hand; it did not entirely work, of course, but it was better than nothing. His advisors had noticed that something was wrong, but he had done his best to hide it from them as much as he possibly could. He had also neglected to mention the degradation to both The Iron Bull and Dorian. Thel'hen saw no benefit to informing them, as Dorian was hard at work trying to reshape Tevinter and the Bull's Chargers had been taking contracts all across the continent—the last letter he had received from Bull had placed him in central Nevarra—and so Thel'hen told himself that letting them know what was going on would only cause them to worry. Deep down he knew it was simply an excuse, and a poor excuse at that, but regardless he had kept his troubles with the Anchor to himself.

"Besides, Bull and Dorian should be there. It will be a nice chance to catch up in person, for a change. Letters are only worth so much," Cullen said. Thel'hen's eyes narrowed as he stared down the commander but Cullen met his gaze with the sly smile of a man who indubitably knew that he was right.

"You're almost as manipulative as Josephine, Cullen," Thel'hen scowled.

"You wound me," Cullen replied as his smirk widened.

"And you give _me_ too little credit," Josephine added. Thel'hen shot a glare between the two of them for several purposefully dramatic moments before unfurling his crossed arms and sighing in defeat.

"Fine. But if I hear just one comment about something stupid, like the 'scandal' involving the Winter Palace's new draperies, I cannot promise you that I won't stab someone."

* * *

Dorian Pavus was just about ready to throw Duke Cyril de Montfort over the edge of the balcony. He was considering whether or not he could get away with it as the Orlesian representative droned on and on about how "Orlais is on your side" and such similar rot, although he knew the true reason for his irritability was neither the uncharacteristically warm summer weather nor the Orlesian bureaucrat's superior air. Rather, Dorian was so dreadfully irascible because he had _not found him yet_. He had been frantically scanning the assembled members of the Exalted Council for what felt like hours now, desperately trying to find.... to find.....

"You'll have to excuse me! I see an old friend I must greet," Dorian blurted out. He had been saying something clever about how the Orlesian court was trying to catch the Inquisition as if it were some political prey—or, at least, he thought it had been clever—when his eyes landed on the elven Inquisitor climbing the Winter Palace's marble steps. Dorian pushed past Duke Cyril rather unceremoniously, knowing Josephine would certainly scold him for it later, but he simply did not care. All that mattered was how Thel'hen's eyes lit up as soon as the elf saw him, and how those damn eyes made Dorian grin like a giddy schoolboy.

"Amatus! Wading through all the pomp and circumstance, I see."

"You're back after being away in Tevinter for a month, and this is how you greet me?" Thel'hen scoffed.

"I have an apology ready," Dorian offered. Thel'hen was about to shoot back a sarcastic retort, but the words fled his mind the moment he felt Dorian's lips meet his own. The elf practically melted on the spot, and likely would have if not for the stone pillar he felt suddenly pressing into his back. Dorian still smelled of turmeric and worn leather and by the _Creators_ Thel'hen had missed him _so damn much._

"I suppose that apology will suffice, for now," Thel'hen conceded as the other man pulled away, suddenly becoming painfully aware that they were, in fact, in the middle of the Winter Palace's courtyard and not in the privacy of Skyhold. He looked the mage up and down, soaking in every detail from Dorian's new outfit—which Bull would be thrilled to discover had significantly less buckles than usual—to the man's finely groomed mustache. "What have you learned about this council?"

"Orlais wants the Inquisition tamed, Ferelden wants it gone, the Chantry meddles, and Tevinter sends but one ambassador," Dorian sighed. "That's me, by the way. A 'reward for my interest in the south'. Thankfully, 'Ambassador Pavus' is a token appointment. Call on me as you like."

"Good to know," Thel'hen chuckled. "Have you seen Bull yet?"

"No, have you?" Dorian asked. When the elf shook his head Dorian rubbed his temples and sighed. "The lummox is late, isn't he? I swear by the Maker, if he shows up in another pair of those ridiculous trousers of his I will walk right out of Halamshiral and leave you both forever."

"You wouldn't dare," Thel'hen whispered with comedically fake upset.

"I absolutely would! He's been going out of his way to find worse and worse crimes of fashion ever since I suggest he _not_ steal his attire from a circus caravan."

”Surely it can’t be _that_ bad!” the Inquisitor teased.

It was _that_ bad. Bull's pants truly looked as if they had been made from the tent of a traveling circus, all stripes and colours that were as vibrant as they were horrendous. Krem had caught Thel'hen before he even had a chance to approach the large qunari, who was sitting behind the bar for no apparent reason other than to be closest to the large barrels of ale stacked in the corner. Apparently the Chargers had gotten their Chief a dragon's skull for his birthday—Thel'hen neither knew nor wanted to know where they had acquired such a thing—and were completely convinced that The Iron Bull was oblivious to their plans. And thus, Thel'hen became the distraction as the Chargers hauled the enormous skull across the checkered floor.

" _Kadan!_ Made time for a drink?" the qunari cried as soon as Thel'hen entered the make-shift tavern. The gentle summer breeze was not quite powerful enough to clear the smell of ale from the open-air establishment, and Thel'hen grinned despite himself. He saw the Bull more often than he saw Dorian, but in truth both men were not nearly around him as much as he would have preferred. Naturally, Thel'hen understood; Dorian was doing important work for the Inquisition in Tevinter—not to mention his attempts at slowly reforming the Magisterium—and The Iron Bull had a company of men (and women) who, despite still _technically_ working for the Inquisition, relied on outside contracts for their livings. Understanding did not make the separation any less painful, of course, but at least he knew his lovers would always come home to him.

"I think I specifically remember the phrase 'over-imbibing is strongly discouraged at all times' in Josephine's friendly reminder of how we members of the Inquisition should conduct ourselves," Thel'hen joked as he sat on one of the barstools. The Iron Bull rounded the counter and sat down next to him, causing the wooden seat underneath him to creak in protest. "You look good, _ma vhenan._ Are those some new scars I see? Must have been a good fight."

"I know, right!" The Iron Bull smiled widely and flexed his muscles, deliberately accentuating the freshly healed tissue on his arm and torso. "The Mourn Watchers were having some trouble in Grand Necropolis. Don't know what they expected, really, letting spirits possess corpses like that. But I'll tell you the story later, _kadan._ "

"Dorian is going to _kill you_ once he sees what you're wearing," Thel'hen laughed as he gestured to Bull's pants.

"They're so bad, aren't they?" the qunari beamed proudly. "The 'vint's head might just explode. The Chargers have all placed bets on what his reaction'll be, but my money's on **_fireball_**." 

"They are absolutely atrocious," Thel'hen agreed. Out of the corner of his eye, the elf could see that the Chargers had not even managed to get the blasted skull through the tavern's narrow doorway. Frantically, his mind scrambled to find a topic of conversation—such as a lie about a merchant in Val Royeaux with particularly intimate wares—before he finally gave up.

"I'm sorry, I can't do this," he sighed. Bull looked surprised, but not for the reason Thel'hen had been expecting.

"Sure you can!" The Iron Bull reassured him. "They must have that thing almost across the room by now, right?" Thel'hen's brow immediately furrowed into a scowl, and the qunari chuckled. "Ben-Hassrath, remember?"

"You knew this whole time, you insufferable miscreant! You were enjoying watching me flounder about, weren't you?" Thel'hen cried.

"Not so loud, or the boys will hear you!" The Iron Bull hissed, although the grin on his face only grew wider. "This is a special moment for them, and I don't want to ruin it!"

"You're kidding, right? It's for _your_ birthday, you know!"

"Yeah, yeah, but to be honest the birthday gift I'm really looking forward to is tonight when I sneak into your room and pull off your—"

"Surprise! Happy birthday, Chief!" Krem interrupted, beaming proudly as the dragon skull lay in all its glory on the tavern floor.

"Oh, you guys! You got me!"

A couple drinks and a few scandalous games of Wicked Grace later, Thel'hen was pleasantly buzzed and positively grateful that the official peace-talks were not taking place until tomorrow.


	2. These Lesser Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Exalted Council officially begins and, as per usual, things don’t go according to plan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canticle of Threnodies 5:09

“How much abundance the world carries if every fistful of sand is an eternity of mountains”

-The Body Canto, _Dragon Age: The World of Thedas_ Vol.2

* * *

"Come on, let's go again."

"It's not even dawn yet," a half-asleep Dorian grumbled into his pillow. The accuracy of such a statement depended entirely on one's definition of dawn, as the first light of the new day was just beginning to appear over the horizon. Thel'hen, who had his head nestled in the crook of Dorian's shoulder and his arm wrapped tightly around the mage's chest, muttered a groggy agreement. "We were at it for hours last night," Dorian continued, his eyes still closed and his tongue slow from sleep. "How are you still so _horny?"_

"You're kidding, right?" the Bull replied with a gesture to his horns which Dorian, on account of having a bronzed forearm lying over his face, did not see. "I'm a qunari, Dorian. Horny is kind of my thing." His retort only resulted in the Tevinter mage sending a half-hearted punch in his general direction, before the same arm that had previously been covering his face joined its brother around Thel'hen's slim form. The Iron Bull sighed and got up from the ornate Orlesian bed which, despite being one of the largest beds he had ever seen in his life, was not quite broad enough to comfortably fit an elf, a human, and a qunari all at the same time. He grabbed the amphora resting on the bedside table and peered inside the vase, only to find that the wine previously held within was all but gone.

The reunion the prior night had been one full of joy and merry-making as Dorian shared news of his progress in Tevinter, Bull retold various stories of his recent mercenary work, and Thel'hen listened to them both with a look of pure bliss on his tanned face. While Dorian and the Chargers still _technically_ worked for the Inquisition, Dorian had begun spending more and more time in Tevinter as public support for Maevaris Tilani's progressive faction of the Magisterium—the Lucerni, as they were so called—grew, and The Iron Bull was often similarly away from Skyhold as his Chargers accepted contracts commissioned by both the Inquisition and by well-paying nobles who wished to grasp any residual fame that came along with hiring a company directly affiliated with the Herland of Andraste. The rest of the night was a blur of mouths pressed on burning skin and hands relearning bodies not quite forgotten.

As the Bull stood he scanned the floor for his trousers before remembering that Krem would be owing him a significant sum of money. The Iron Bull had been correct with his fireball prediction, but to his disappointment Dorian only deemed the pants worthy of incineration _after_ The Iron Bull had taken them off. Winning the bet with the Chargers was great for bragging-rights, but the disadvantage to his success was that he now found himself in the Herald of Andraste's chamber, in the middle of the Winter Palace, just barely an hour before sunrise, with absolutely no pants. _Shit._

"Thel'hen," he whispered as he turned back to the bed and gently shook the elf's shoulder. Dorian's chest rose and fell methodically as the Bull gently shook Thel'hen a second time.

"Hmm?" the elf hummed groggily as he nuzzled his head deeper into Dorian's shoulder. The other mage began to snore ever so softly, and the familiar sound made Thel'hen practically purr. They had slept with the window open on account of the summer heat, and when The Iron Bull rose the blankets had fallen to the edge of the bed, revealing the naked bodies of the Dalish elf and the Tevinter altus tangled together like intricate vines.

"I... I don't have any pants," the Bull admitted. A single sleepy chuckle escaped Thel'hen's throat as his lips turned into a languid smile.

"S'your own fault, wearing those carnival trousers," the Inquisitor mumbled, his eyes remaining closed as he pulled the covers back up and over his shoulders. Dorian muttered something largely incoherent, save for a comment that sounded suspiciously like 'you look better without pants anyway'.

"I'm pretty sure if Josephine finds out that I've been running around the Winter Palace, as bare-ass naked as Koslun's balls on his birthday, she might _actually_ kill me."

"Kinky."

"Which, the public indecency or the thought of our lady ambassador killing one of your lovers?" Dorian groaned as he screwed his eyes shut, clearly displeased that the continuing conversation was impeding his ability to sleep. Thel'hen let out a drowsy giggle and rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand.

"Yes? No? Both? Neither? I dunno, s'too early, m'brain don't work good," the elf groaned.

"Clearly," Dorian grumbled. Somewhere outside, a songbird began to chirp. They remained in silence for a moment, the Bull trying to memorize every curve and angle of his lovers on the bed, and Dorian had nearly fallen back asleep when The Iron Bull had an idea.

"Hey Dorian," he said, his voice a low and enticing rumble. "If you get me another pair of pants I'll give you a blowjob." One of Dorian's eyes opened suspiciously, the grey of his iris slightly cloudy with sleep.

"Just imagine it," the Bull continued huskily, making a point of flexing his pelvic muscles when the mage's eyes eventually wandered to them. "The Iron Bull attending the Exhalted Council, arguing with Arl Teagan and Duke Cyril, conversing with the Most Holy Divine Victoria herself, all with the smell of your cock on his breath." He hissed out those last few words and watched as Dorian's eyes became focused and he furrowed his brow.

_"Festis bei umo canavarum,"_ Dorian murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

"..... is that a yes?"

"At least let me get _my_ pants first," Dorian sighed in defeat and gently moved out from under Thel'hen, allowing the elf to curl up in the middle of the mattress with a discontent mumble as Dorian stood up.

"I mean, I'd personally love to see you running around Halamshiral with nothing bu—ow, _OW_ , no more fire in the bedroom, Dorian, _NO FIRE IN THE BEDROOM!"_

* * *

"The Inquisition established an armed presence in Fereldan territory. You outright seized Caer Bronach in Crestwood!" Arl Teagan Guerrin of Redcliffe accused. Despite being only fifty-three years of age, the Bann of Rainesfere had the complexion of overstretched parchment and a demeanour characteristic of a man twice his senior. Thel'hen had never been one to pay attention to _shem_ fashion, but even he had noticed how passé the Arl's attire was. He bristled in his chair despite catching Josephine's fingers strum nervously over her knee, which was hidden from the eyes of the Exalted Council in front of them by the large mahogany table at which they sat. 

"I was protecting _your_ people," Thel'hen snapped. Over two years had passed since that fateful autumn day when Cassandra and Anders had performed the Reversal Rite in one of Skyhold's abandoned towers, but despite the passage of time Thel'hen still occasionally struggled to control his emotions. _The Book of Secrets_ had said as much, warning that reversing the Rite of Tranquility would leave a mage emotionally unstable; relearning how to manage his feelings had been a painfully slow process, but usually he was able to keep his emotions under control. Usually. 

"Would you rather my forces have _not_ taken Caer Bronach?” he continued, not even trying to hide the anger in his voice. “Ambassador Montilyet, please do remind me once this sad excuse for a 'council' is over I must write a formal letter of apology to the _bandits_ I _seized_ Caer Bronach from, along with an official notice that the Fereldan government has sanctioned their immediate return to the keep." Josephine's eyes widened and she looked as if she might just have an aneurysm right there on the court floor as Arl Teagan's face flushed red with rage. He began spluttering to the Divine about how the Inquisition was entirely out of line, as a child might do when their sibling has wronged them and they demand their parent distribute harsh judgement. Meanwhile, an Inquisition agent—a city elf, by the looks of her, with shortly cropped blond hair and startlingly pale blue eyes—stepped soundlessly between the chairs in which he and Josephine sat. She leaned down to whisper in his ear, all the while Arl Teagan's face became redder and redder was a growing fury.

"Pardon me, Inquisitor. The Nightingale wishes to speak with you in private. It's a pressing matter, your Worship," she whispered. He could not quite place her accent, but seeing as she was likely one of Leliana's spies that particular mystic was likely a tremendous asset.

_"Mythal serannas,"_ the Inquisitor nearly swore aloud, but he managed to bite his tongue and offer the diplomats a vitriolic smile. "Now, good serahs and your Divine Holiness, you must excuse me. An urgent matter has arisen that I must personally attend to. But please, do continue your senseless debate regarding whether or not I had the _authority_ to _save the damn world_." And with that the Inquisitor stormed off, silently thanking the Creators for whatever had taken place to allow him to leave all those _shems_ to bicker amongst themselves.

He was not thankful for long.

"Tell me, Leliana, if you think there's a reason why nothing we ever do can just go right?" 

Judging by the pool of blood in which he lay, the Qunari warrior could not have been dead for more than a few hours. Bull was standing over the body with his arms tightly crossed against his chest, the anxious tension held in his shoulders clear for all to see.

"I do not have an answer for you, Inquisitor," Leliana replied in her usual melodic tone. Thel'hen sighed and rubbed his temples, hiding his face behind his right hand as his left hand—in which a stinging feeling had been growing for over an hour now—was tucked securely under his arm.

"Any ideas, Bull?" the exasperated elf asked with a motion to the warrior's unmoving corpse.

"I'm just as confused as you, _kadan,_ " The Iron Bull admitted. "He's an Antaam for sure, but more specifically than that I can't quite tell. If I had to guess based on the armour he was probably a Karasaad or an Ashaad _._ " Bull paused upon seeing Thel'hen's blank expression before backtracking. "The Antaam is the branch of the Qunari military led by the Arishok. They gather military intelligence, recover holy artifacts, seek and destroy threats to the Qun, stuff like that," he explained. "This Viddathari—right, sorry, this human convert to the Qun—was probably just a simple soldier or scout."

"Okay, but how the fuck did he get into the Winter Palace in full Antaam armour?" Thel'hen asked. The Bull shrugged.

"Wish I could say. I burned all of my Ben-Hassrath contacts when I became Tal-Vashoth, so I have no idea. But it doesn't make sense. I can't think of any reason why the Arishok would approve an attack on the Exalted Council; he's a reasonable guy—" Leliana frowned at this "—well, compared to the last Arishok, anyway. Something must have changed." He growled deep in this chest, the anger and frustration in his voice boiling over as he grimaced. " _Vashedan,_ I wish I knew what the fuck the Arishok is planning."

"If you knew what he was planning, you'd still be on his side," Thel'hen reminded him.

"Yeah, but I'd _know_ things. I _like_ knowing things."

"And I like knowing that you won't have to choose between me and the Qun," Thel'hen retorted. He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips; an emotional frost filled the air as The Iron Bull stared at him, open mouthed, with hurt etched across his face. Leliana cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Could you give us a minute, Red?" the Bull said softly. The Nightingale simply nodded and excused herself from the room, shutting the door quickly behind her. Thel'hen felt the tips of his ears burning as he refused to meet the Bull's eye.

"What do you mean, 'choose between you and the Qun'?" the qunari whispered. His voice held no quiver, no betrayal of emotion, but Thel'hen could feel the pain he had caused in space between them.

"That's not what I meant," he answered in an equally hushed tone. "I just mean... _fenedhis,_ I just meant.... damn it, I don't know, Bull. Can you even tell me honestly that if you were still on their side that you'd... that you'd throw your whole life away? For me?"

The Iron Bull stood completely still, his mind racing a million leagues a second. They stood in painfully silence until finally the Bull tried to clear the lump in his throat and opened his mouth to speak.

"Before you The Iron Bull wasn't real, _kadan_. All those years south of Par Vollen 'The Iron Bull' was just another mask. Another fake identity that I could hide behind, the means to an end and nothing more. Sure, it was my favourite role to play, but it was a lie nonetheless. But you... you made The Iron Bull _real,_ Thel. My men—Krem, Rocky, Dalish, Stitches, Skinner, Grim—they were going to die that day on the Storm Coast, for a man who didn't even exist. When you told me to blow the horn, to sound the retreat... I promised to never be anyone other than The Iron Bull ever again."

"You didn't answer my question," Thel'hen whispered, finally raising his head to meet the Bull's gaze.

"I... I know I didn't. Because I don't know if I can."


	3. Souls Made of Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thel'hen finds out that Dorian is planning to permanently return to Tevinter after the Exalted Council is concluded. Cole, The Iron Bull, and Dorian accompany the Inquisitor to the Shattered Library, where the Anchor's issues make themselves known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canticle of Threnodies 5:06

"So one must ask, if the truth is so elusive, and a lie so much more useful, why choose the one over the other?"

- _Dragon Age Short Story: The Riddle of Truth_

* * *

"I'm going back to Tevinter. For good, this time."

The words hit Thel'hen like a punch to the gut that left him numb and gasping for air. Despite the gloriously bright sun beaming warmly onto them, Thel'hen felt suddenly cold. The soft words were barely audible over the ornate fountain bubbling beside them, particularly on account of Dorian speaking with his back to the elf as he suddenly found himself unable to look Thel'hen in the eyes. 

"I thought... I thought you weren't going back," Thel'hen said, trying desperately to keep his voice from breaking. "What's changed?"

"I don't want to go back, _amatus_ , but... my father is dead. Assassinated, I believe," Dorian sighed as he turned to face the Inquisitor. His voice was raw and lacked its usual bluster, and upon seeing Thel'hen's heartbroken expression he immediately regretted his decision to turn around. "I received notice this morning: a perversely cheery letter congratulating me on assuming his seat in the Magisterium." He could see Thel'hen's mind racing as slowly the elf realized what he meant.

"And what? You were just going to leave without telling me?" Thel'hen accused, his voice finally cracking under the weight of all the emotions washing over him. He was hurt, upset, betrayed, but most of all, afraid. They both knew Tevinter was one of the least safe places in all of Thedas for either of them to be—save for Seheron and Par Vollen, of course—and that the Magisterium would not treat Dorian kindly.

"Of course I was going to tell you!" Dorian insisted. "Just... not like this. My father and I only met a few times while I was home. He didn't say anything about keeping me as his heir." Thel'hen nodded numbly and Dorian saw the elf pick nervously at his cuticles. The habit drove Dorian insane, but Thel'hen could not help it; he was too deep in thought to notice. " _Kaffas,_ Thel, say something."

"I'm... I'm sorry about your father. I know things were complicated, but I'm sorry all the same."

Dorian's breath hitched in his throat. He had expected to be yelled at, for Thel'hen to break down into tears or hurl a lightning bolt at him or tell him how he was a terrible person who he never wanted to see again; instead, the elf had apologized. _To him._

"Thank you," Dorian murmured. "It still doesn't feel real." _None of this feels real._ Fasta vass, _I wish this wasn't real._

"What of us? Is this it, then?" Thel'hen whispered after a moments silence, his eyes glued to the stupid fancy boots Josephine insisted he wear. If it were up to him, he would spend his entire life barefoot, but apparently not wearing shoes at the Winter Palace would be seen as 'uncivilized'.

"Nonsense! There will always be an 'us', we'll just be... further apart for a time," Dorian cried, but his answer only made Thel'hen's face fall further. "Now, now, don't pout," he continued. "They'll put that expression on a statue, and then you'll be sorry."

"Damnit, Dorian, this isn't funny," Thel'hen snapped. He knew that emotions, and expression emotions in particular, made the Tevinter mage incredibly uncomfortable. Dorian tried to hide his hurt under a humorous guise, but at that moment Thel'hen could not stand the faux sense of security the other mage persisted on presenting.

".... I know, _amatus._ Nothing about this is funny. I _am_ sorry, for what it's worth," Dorian sighed.

"Have you... have you told Bull?"

From the ground behind them, The Iron Bull snorted in his sleep; Dorian had suspicions that the qunari was simply faking his inebriated blackout, but there was no way for him to know for certain.

"Yes," Dorian admitted. "He wants to come with me. It can't happen, of course. A qunari cannot simply walk around the Imperium, even in a Magister's company. I'm afraid you can't, either. All of Thedas knows your face, and there are whispers of various Venatori agents still at work in the Imperium. It would be too dangerous, for both of you. I can't allow that."

"You don't have to go back, Dorian. You put it behind you. You still could," Thel'hen offered with a hope in his voice that felt like a knife to Dorian's chest.

"Give up a golden opportunity for martyrdom? Perish the thought!" Dorian joked, although his heart was not in the humour. "But I won't be entirely without support. Maevaris has gathered other magisters who feel as we do. We'll be an actual fraction in the Magisterium! I'll teach them manners. Take them shopping. It'll be fun!"

"How can you be so okay with this?" Thel'hen demanded. "You always find a way to put something else before yourself, even—no, _especially—_ when it means that your happiness is scarified for some other cause. Can't you just give yourself permission to be happy? It's almost like you think that you don't _deserve_ to be loved. _You've done enough, Dorian._ "

"What? I don't—I mean, you can't just assume I—" Dorian sputtered, completely lost for words. " _Vishante kaffas,_ you sound like Bull!"

"I guess it doesn't matter, now," Thel'hen murmured as he crossed his arms and looked back down. "You'll still write, won't you?"

"Probably not," Dorian admitted, and Thel'hen's head snapped up with hurt and confusion until he saw Dorian's outstretched hand. Laying delicately in his palm was a relatively simple gold locket held by a similarly simplistic necklace chain.

"A present. A going away present," Dorian explained. Thel'hen took it suspiciously and pressed the small button on the side, releasing the latch to reveal a glowing blue crystal held within. "It's a sending crystal. Amazing what friendship with the Inquisition gives you access to. If I get in over my head, or you're overwhelmed with sorrow for lack of my velvety voice—magic! What—you didn't think I would just leave and you'd never hear from me again, did you?"

"How does it work?" Thel'hen asked, all anger momentarily set aside in place of curiosity at the stone humming in his hand.

"Honestly, I'm not entirely sure," Dorian admitted. "They're incredibly rare, so we really don't know much about them. Most Tevinter scholars believe them to be elven in origin, which would make sense, what with the Imperium's long track record of appropriating ancient elven magic and artifacts. They normally only come in pairs, but this set has _three_ stones instead of two. Surprisingly, finding one set of three was easier than finding three sets of two.... regardless, we'll be able to communicate, all of us, no matter how far apart we may be."

Dorian pulled out a similar necklace from under his shirt and popped it open; the two stones seemed to buzz with proximity, and despite Thel'hen's fascination the reality that Dorian truly was leaving hit him all over again as he felt tears begin to well in his eyes.

"I'm.. _f_ _enedhis_ , Dorian, I'm going to miss you so much," Thel'hen murmured as a small sob escaped his throat. Dorian pulled him into his arms as the elf began to shake, desperately trying not to break down into a complete mess of tears.

"You are the man I love, _amatus_ ," Dorian whispered as he ran a hand through Thel'hen's hair. "Nothing will truly keep us apart."

* * *

"Hey _kadan_ , not to say that I don't enjoy spending quality time with you and Dorian, but do you think the next time the three of us get back together we could go somewhere a little less... Fade-y?"

Needless to say, The Iron Bull was not thrilled when he saw that Qunari in the Winter Palace. His displeasure at that discovery, however, was nothing compared to how indignant the eluvians made him feel. The fact that the Qunari were using them was only more disconcerting; Dorian, on the other hand, seemed extraordinarily relieved that Tevinter, for once, was not the evil force at work.

"I must admit, _amatus,_ that this is not exactly the reunion I had in mind," Dorian agreed. Wherever the eluvian had taken them was remarkably similar to the Fade yet, somehow, was still located in the Waking World. _Vir Dirthara,_ as the Archivist spirit they encountered earlier had called it, was a maze of crumbling stone steps that lead to nowhere and timeworn books that whispered the secrets of a lost age. Indeed, "The Shattered Library" was a perfectly befitting title, although Thel'hen had been so distracted by his hand that he had entirely forgotten to translate the Archivist spirit's words until Dorian had asked him three times. The Anchor had flared up earlier in the mountain ruins, and despite the elf insisting that he was fine both Dorian and The Iron Bull were beginning to worry. That worry developed into fear when they reached the Shattered Library's courtyard.

'Courtyard' was a rather generous term, considering all the debris and crumbling roof overhead. In the centre of the stone floor, which was littered with various books and other rubble, stood what could best be described as a copper-coloured sculpture swirling with green light. The statue somewhat resembled a tree, with a solid truck that stuck into the floor and splayed out into branch-like sections at the top. As soon as Thel'hen approached the oddity both the sculpture and the Anchor flashed with dazzlingly bright light and a crack pierced through the air as the elf stumbled forward. He couldn't help but cry out and grab his left wrist with his other hand as pain shot through his arm.

" _Kadan!_ Are you alright?" the Bull cried as he leapt forward to steady the stumbling elf. 

"I'm fine," Thel'hen lied through gritted teeth as Dorian and Cole similarly rushed to his side. 

"Did you notice? The Anchor is flaring up around magic. _Elven_ magic," Dorian said as he carefully examined the elf's hand. While it showed no signs of physical injury, Thel'hen's entire hand seemed to be pulsating with magic just barely contained beneath his skin.

"It doesn't hurt when I cast spells. What's causing this?" the Inquisitor asked. The Iron Bull gave Dorian a similarly desperate look, silently pleading that the mage had an answer for whatever it was that was happening to their partner.

"I don't know," Dorian admitted, watching the hope in The Iron Bull's eyes fade like a dying light. "Any ideas, Cole?"

"The magic here wakes it," Cole offered. "Familiar, strong... ripping apart again, all again."

"Well _that_ doesn't sound good," the Bull grumbled. When Thel'hen once more insisted that he was fine, Dorian's eyes narrowed and he turned to Cole, who was examining the sculpture curiously.

"Cole, is he lying?"

"I'm not lying!" Thel'hen insisted. "I'm really fine!" Cole's head tilted slightly as he thought for a moment.

"Your hand hurts. A heartbeat. Not yours. Hammering the beat of a song in its final verse. I'm sorry."

Silence filled the room as Dorian and The Iron Bull both stared daggers at the Inquisitor, who suddenly felt his face flush red with the shame of being caught in a lie.

"..... Cole, if I am alive when all this is over, I am going to kill you," Thel'hen swore.

"No you won't. You like me."

"Has this been happening frequently?" Dorian asked, although it was more of a demand for answers than it was a question.

"No," Thel'hen lied again. Cole opened his mouth to protest, but the Inquisitor cut him off. "It's just been happening around these elven sculpture things. It's almost like the Anchor recognizes the magic here... I can't explain it. But I really would rather not linger around. Let's just find the Viddasala, stop whatever the fuck 'Dragon's Breath' is, and then get out of here."

"Sounds good to me," the Bull agreed. Dorian nodded after another hesitant glance at Thel'hen's hand, wanting desperately to believe that the elf's words were true. He could not believe the lie for long.


	4. Into the Jaws of the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canticle of Shartan 9:17

“There is no way to know [if we did the right thing]. We all go through our entire lives not knowing. Wondering. Trying. Until we sleep”

-Varric, _Dragon Age: Until We Sleep_ Vol.3

* * *

"'She's not killing Solas, I'm killing Solas!' What a _bloody_ _idiot!"_ Dorian screamed as he slammed a trembling fist into the lightless surface of the closed eluvian.

"It's no use, Dorian," The Iron Bull sighed from his seat atop the disheveled pile of stones that had collapsed from the archway above. When Thel'hen had rushed through the eluvian after the Viddasala, the gateway standing amidst the ancient elven ruins flowed with the bright blue light of forgotten magic; as soon as the Inquisitor had passed its threshold, however, the vibrant glow was replaced with a dark rust-coloured wall that, despite undulating in a similar manner as it had before, hardened to the touch and permitted no passage to the other side.

"Stupid elven piss-head magic bullshit!" Sera yelled, pausing momentarily from her pacing in the courtyard to spit in the eluvian's direction with an equal combination of fear and fury. She had already wasted a quarter of her remaining arrows shooting the closed eluvian, and although Bull truly believed that the first shot was made in an attempt to reactivate the portal, the subsequent shots were just to release Sera's rage.

"UGH!" Sera shouted. "We come all this way, kill all these Qunari bastards, and for what? To find out that Solas-Shit-for-Brains is an agent of some stupid made-up elven god? I swear, when I find that egg-head I'm gonna shove a jar of bees _right up his arse!"_

"Seems like a waste of bees," The Iron Bull grumbled. "We don't even know if the Viddasala was telling the truth."

"Why would she lie?!" Sera snapped.

"Because she's the _Viddasala,_ Sera. Lying is her job. You just want to believe her because you thought she was hot."

"Oi! That's got nothing to do with it!" Sera protested. Dorian sighed and stepped back from the eluvian only to slide to the floor with his back to the stone debris. The Iron Bull glanced over at him as the mage's head dropped limply into his hands.

"He's gonna be alright, 'vint," the Bull promised. "He's tough, he's smart, and he's really pissed off. I doubt anything can stand in his way."

"The Anchor might," Dorian said plainly, no emotion filling his voice as he sat defeated on the ruins. "We both know it's killing him. _Kaffas,_ he should have said something! I could have... I don't know.... _something!"_

"There's nothing we can do, we just have to wait. Hopefully Solas _is_ there; he stopped the Anchor from killing Thel'hen once, he might be able to do it again," the qunari replied. No one said anything after that; they simply sat by the base of the ruined stone blocks in silence, waiting, hoping, praying that Thel'hen would return.

When they had discovered that 'Dragon's Breath' was not actually a code-name for the Viddasala's plans but rather the _actual_ breath of a dragon, The Iron Bull had been oddly grateful. Dragons were something he understood. Dragons he could rationalize. Dragons he knew how to deal with. What he did not know how to deal with were the Viddasala's words.

 _Vinek kathas._ 'Seize them.' She had called him Hissrad, had said _please_ , and when he felt the eyes of both Dorian and Thel'hen try to meet his own he knew that they understood. The Viddasala was not giving him an order; she was offering him a chance at redemption. She had given him an opportunity no Tal-Vashoth had ever been given before, the opportunity to be _forgiven_ , to return to the Qun, to become Qunari once more. For nearly three years now he had lived as a Grey One, and although he knew that the price of his faith was simply too high to condone, there was some small part of him that still wished he could take it all back. On a visceral level he knew things were far better this way, with the Charges at his side and Par Vollen at his back. But as he felt his lovers' eyes burning into his skin, as he saw the questions flashing across their faces, he realized that they did not know if he would betray them for that promise; the promise of _redemption_. He had not entertained the option for even a fraction of a second, of course, but knowing that they thought he might hurt him like they had ripped out his heart and put _saar-qamek_ in its place.

 _I am not Hissrad anymore._ When he had said as such to the Viddasala, he felt the chains weighing down his soul snap like dead twigs beneath his feet. _I am The Iron Bull._

Now, as they sat in silence for what felt like eons, that burning pain in the Bull's chest returned. How could they have thought he would throw everything they had away like that? He had half the mind to ask Dorian when suddenly, miraculously, the eluvian began to glow and four slender fingers emerged, wrapping around the mirror's frame until their knuckles turned white. Thel'hen emerged slowly, staggering forward and nearly collapsing onto the ground before The Iron Bull rushed to catch him. The elf collapsed into the qunari's arms just as the light in the eluvian died once more.

"Oh thank fuck," Sera cried. She was further away from the rest of them, so she didn't see what had happened until she noticed the blood beginning to flow over the shattered stones. _"Shite,_ are you alright?!" she screamed as she ran forward. Dorian, meanwhile, was frozen in place, staring in horror at Thel'hen's limp left sleeve as the elf's blood began to flow over his boots.

"Sera, I need a healing potion!" Bull cried as he lowered Thel'hen to the ground. "Dorian, get some cloth and put some pressure on his arm. I'll need some strips of fabric and your staff for a tourniquet. Dorian, _now!"_

"On it!" the mage yelped as he tore off his cloak and pressed it against Thel'hen's arm—or, rather, what remained of Thel'hen's arm. The elf cried out and tried to no avail to roll away from the contact.

"Shit, Thel'hen, what happened to you?" Dorian demanded as The Iron Bull began applying the tourniquet. 

"Well.... I found Solas," Thel'hen replied through gritted teeth, his unnaturally-pale face twisting into a pained grimace as the Bull used Dorian's staff to tighten the cloth around his bicep.

_"And?"_

"And he was _exquisitely_ dressed."

"Oh sweet Maker, he's lost too much blood! He's delirious!" Dorian cried frantically. "Damnit Sera, where's that health potion?"

"I can't find any, I think we're out! You're a mage, do some magic on him or something!" Sera hollered as she tore through their remaining supplies. The Iron Bull was all too aware that Dorian was not a healer—a fact they had been over many times—and although Dorian was one of the most skilled mages the Bull had ever met, they both knew that the 'vint could not even close the tiniest of scrapes with magic. But even if he could, this was far more than a tiny scrape; it was a entire fucking _amputation_. Not even blood magic could seal this type of wound, a fact that Bull was grateful for whilst fighting 'vints in Seheron but now made him want to scream.

"Did Solas do this to you?" The Iron Bull demanded as he finished tying the tourniquet and gingerly helped the elf sit up.

"He said the only way to stop the Anchor was to remove it," Thel'hen answered with a nod. "Asked if I had a healer with me... I said no, and he wished me luck..."

"He did this with magic? Why the fuck didn't he stop the bleeding?" Dorian shrieked. His eyes filled with such rage that the Bull was suddenly very grateful that the eluvian had closed again upon Thel'hen's return, else Dorian may just have run through to kill Solas himself.

"Not sure," the elf mused. "Probably had something to do with me calling him a 'tratourious nugg-fucking louse who's so unbearably annoying that even his own hair doesn’t want to be around him'...."

"Well, you're not wrong!" Sera shouted before scampering up the pile of rubble to join them. "He is an absolute cunt, and not the good kind. But we're definitely out of healing potions."

"Just my luck," Thel'hen sighed as his face contorted again in pain. The Iron Bull swore under his breath and scooped Thel'hen up and into his arms, responding only to the elf's protest that he would walk on his perfectly fine own with a low growl that reverberated deep within his chest.

"Let's get back to the Winter Palace as fast as we can," the qunari ordered, turning to Dorian and Sera. "Elfroot's not gonna do shit for this, so let's not waste time looking. The tourniquet will help stop the bleeding, but Thel'hen needs a healer _right fucking now._ We'll retrace our steps through the eluvians, alright? If there are any remaining threats, Qun-related or otherwise, you two keep them off of Thel and me, alright?" Dorian and Sera nodded fervently, equally terrified expressions adorning their faces. 

"Okay, then. Let's go."

"Why can't all the henchmen die after you kill their leader, like they do in stories?" Dorian cried as he raised his hands and cast a barrier around them. They were nearly back to Halamshiral, but the remaining Qunari forces were making their advance more tedious and time-consuming than Thel'hen's condition would allow.

"Because real life is a pain in the ass," Bull answered as he used his shoulder to slam a Qunari archer into the wall with a sickening crunch. Thel'hen let out a soft yelp at the abrupt movement, but was otherwise silent. An arrow went whizzing past The Iron Bull's face and buried itself deep within a Viddathari's throat. "Sera, how you doin' on arrows?" he cried as the victim of the rouge's bow coughed up red and sunk to the ground.

"Not good _—ARGH, stay still you Qun-loving prick!"_ Sera yelled back before an arrow shot clean through an Antaam's eye socket, the blood-soaked tip of the arrow protruding through the back of the Qunari's skull as he fell to the ground. The Iron Bull snatched the quiver off of the flattened Qunari besides him with his free hand, for in truth he only needed one arm to hold the tiny elven Inquisitor, and tossed it at Sera with a grunt.

"Take this!" he cried as the quiver soared through the air and Sera, despite shrieking at the sudden projectile hurling towards her face, managed to catch the thrown ammunition without dropping her bow. Immediately the elf slung the quiver over her shoulder and drew a fresh arrow, which promptly made itself home in another Antaam's side. 

"Bull..." a trembling voice rose up from the elf cradled in the qunari's arms.

"I'm here, _kadan_ , just hold on a little longer," Bull answered as he ran, paying attention to nothing save for the path to the next eluvian until he felt something warm and wet begin to slide down his side. "Shit, Dorian! He's bled through the bandage!" he yelled. Somewhere ahead of them, Dorian swore.

 _"Bull,"_ Thel'hen whispered, his breath becoming more and more laboured by the second as he weakly grabbed at the qunari's harness with his remaining hand, his cool fingertips fumbling feebly against the Bull's chest. His head felt like it was about to split open and everything around him was moving in bright blurs as he desperately tried to get The Iron Bull's attention.

"It's going to be ok, Thel, we've just got a few more eluvian to go, you're going to be ok—"

"Andruil, the.... Lady of Fortune and... goddess of... the Hunt... taught my people... the _Vir Tanadhal,_ the... Way of Three Trees...." Thel'hen began between shallow breaths. "The first is... _Vir Assan_ , the Way... of the Arrow... next is _Vir_ _Bor'Assan_.... the Way of the Bow... and last is... my favourite... _Vir Adahlen,_ the... Way... of the..... Forest...."

 _"Kadan,_ why are you telling me this?" the Bull demanded. "Save your strength for—"

"Receive the... gifts of the hunt..... with..... mindfulness...." Thel'hen recited slowly. ".....know.... that your passing...... shall..... nourish them..... in turn....." The Iron Bull stopped in his tracks, suddenly all too aware of how clammy the elf had become.

 _"Vhenan_... why is it so cold?" Thel'hen murmured before his head lolled back and he went completely limp in the qunari's arms.

"fuuUUUCK! _DORIAN!"_ The Iron Bull roared. 

"I'm a little busy!" the mage yelled as he knocked a Qunari soldier back with his staff.

"He's gone into hemorrhagic shock!"

"He's what?" Dorian screamed, ducking underneath the greataxe of the Qunari warrior before setting off a fire-mine beneath the assailant, leaving him writhing in flames on the ground until he stopped moving entirely.

"Blood loss, 'vint! Shock from blood loss! We have to stop the bleeding," the Bull bellowed as he kicked a particularly unfortunate Antaam off of a crumbling ledge. A quick surveyal of their surroundings told them that the last of the Qunari, at least in this area, were either riddled with arrows or charred husks scorched beyond recognition.

"I already told you, I'm not a healer! That type of magic just isn't something I can do!" Dorian replied as he rushed to where The Iron Bull was lowering Thel'hen to the hard stone beneath their feet.

"Well, what _can_ you do?" Bull snapped. He immediately felt bad for the outburst, but resigned to apologize to Dorian later, after Thel'hen was safe. _After._

"I can cauterize the wound but—"

"Do it!" Bull demanded as he lay the unconscious elf on the ground.

"But the risk of infection—" Dorian began to protest, but The Iron Bull cut him off.

"Dorian, he's going to _die._ He's losing too much blood. Cauterize the wound, _NOW_." He turned then to Sera, who was crouched trembling by Thel'hen's side. "Sera, run ahead of us back to the Winter Palace. Find Ma’am, or any other healer you can." Sera did not seem to hear the qunari as she stared motionless at the Inquisition's unmoving body. "Sera, _GO!"_ Bull yelled, causing the rouge to jump in alarm before offering a sharp "right!" and sprinting off.

"Dorian, I'll need to hold him down. He might wake back up, and we can't have him thrashing around," Bull instructed as Dorian knelt by Thel'hen's side and felt his wrist for a pulse; he found one, although it was weak and fluttered frailly beneath his skin. The Iron Bull pulled off his belt and, after opening the elf's mouth, placed the leather between Thel'hen's upper and lower jaws. "Keep 'em from biting through his tongue if he wakes up," the Bull explained after Dorian gave him an odd look. "This is going to hurt."

"Right," Dorian nodded. He peeled the makeshift bandages, which were well soaked with blood, off of what remained of Thel'hen's left arm and immediately the ground beneath the elf began to turn red. "What about the tourniquet?"

"Leave it on," Bull answered as he pinned Thel'hen's legs under his own and used his hands to secure the elf's shoulders. Dorian took a shaky breath and his hand burst into flames.

"Ready?"

"Ready," the qunari answered.

The smell was what hit him first; it was like a mixture of the sulfuric stench of burnt hair, the metallic aroma of coagulated blood, the acrid scent of melted plastic, and, oddly enough, the smell of charred meat roasted too long over a campfire. The stench filled his nose and stuck in his mouth and suddenly The Iron Bull was in Seheron all over again, surrounded by fog so dense that he could barely breathe, the salty smell of knee-high seawater foaming red with blood surrounding him like a cloud while a dreadnought behind him burned, and people screaming... so much _screaming...._

The sound of Dorian puking snapped the Bull back to reality. He released his grip on Thel'hen, who was still lying motionless underneath him, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Dorian's work had successfully stopped the bleeding. What remained of the elf's arm was a combination of charred-black skin peeling back from sizzling, vibrant red flesh covered in bubbling blisters of a white ooze that appeared to be either fat or pus. The Iron Bull nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Nearly. Until he saw that Thel'hen's chest was not rising and falling with breath. He swore and placed his ear to the elf's heart, begging whatever gods there might be that he would hear his lover's heartbeat. Meanwhile, Dorian finished puking and whipped bile from his mouth. 

"Maker, the _smell_ ," the mage groaned. The smell truly was nauseating—even The Iron Bull had lost his breakfast the first time he had smelt burning flesh in Seheron—but overtime he had become used to it; now, however, his focus was on something else entirely. 

"Shit shit _SHIT!"_ he swore as he sprang up, placing one hand over the other and beginning chest compressions on the disturbingly pallid Inquisitor beneath him. "He's not breathing. Dorian, _HE'S NOT BREATHING!"_

"ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE!" Dorian cried, pushing the qunari aside as lightning began to crackle at his fingertips. "I have done _so much_ to keep you alive, you audacious pillock of a man! You are _NOT_ allowed to die now!" He brought his hands down over Thel'hen's chest and a shot of lightning caused the elf's limp body to momentarily convulse on the ground before Dorian's ear pressed down on his chest to listen to his heartbeat—or, rather, the lack thereof. Dorian swore and sent another jolt of electricity through the elf as The Iron Bull sat back on the floor with a ringing in his ears and the sharp aroma of burnt flesh in his mouth. He wasn't even able to speak until the fifth bolt of lightning left the Tevinter mage's fingertips.

"Dorian, stop," the qunari whispered as the man swayed unsteadily from where he sat on top of Thel'hen's motionless body. Dorian's head was swimming and he was dizzy from the lack of mana, but he knew he couldn't stop, he had to keep going, he had to, he had to, he had to—

"Dorian, _please,"_ The Iron Bull begged, his voice breaking a little as he felt water begin to burn behind his eyes. "Stop. You've got no energy left, you're going to pass out."

"No, no, no I can't stop I can fix this I can fix him I can—" Dorian began desperately before collapsing onto the elf's cold chest. _"Maker_ , please no, don't take him from me, please, this can't be real, _please!"_

"He's gone, Dorian," Bull whispered over Dorian's wails. 

"He's....

....gone."


	5. Where Hearts Once Beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canticle of Silence 2:01
> 
> Trigger-warning: brief description of torture and implied sexual assault

"You will guard them and they will hate you for it...humanity will do its best to forget how much they need us. And that’s good"

-Warden Commander Kristoff, _Dragon Age: The Calling_

* * *

_**Drip.** _

The Iron Bull's bathwater was a startling shade of pink. He had imagined that the colour would be closer to crimson, but instead the blood had been diluted into something far less abrasive than the deep shade of red it had been whilst dried on his skin.

_**Drip.** _

_I_ _t's strangely pretty,_ he thought to himself. _I suppose everything about Thel'hen is... was... pretty._

_**Drip.** _

Despite being an extravagantly large bathtub by human standards, the qunari just barely managed to fit inside the damn thing. He watched absentmindedly as red drops of water fell from the tip of his crooked nose to join the rest of the liquid surrounding him; perhaps it was his blood, or Thel'hen's, or someone else's, or perhaps it did not even matter at all. 

**_Drip._ **

"You okay in there, _amatus_?" a soft voice asked from under the door. Perhaps Dorian had knocked, but the Bull had not heard him; he was too busy being serenaded by blood and water. _Hmm. Blood and Water. Varric could probably make something out of that._

The Iron Bull did not bother looking up when he heard the door open. Nor did he bother looking up when he felt, rather than saw, Dorian kneel besides him outside of the tub. Nor did he bother looking up when the mage, after sticking a finger in the bath, sighed and placed his hand over the water until steam began to rise from its surface and the pinkish hue all but vanished from within.

"There," Dorian said gently. "Now let's get you cleaned up, okay?" 

"I don't need you to bathe me, 'vint," The Iron Bull protested rather dispassionately as Dorian covered a nearby cloth in some obtuse-smelling Orlesian soap and began to rub the cloth in small circles across the qunari's back.

"I know," Dorian lied as he continued. "But you've been in here for hours. Vivienne's starting to worry."

 _Unlikely,_ Bull thought to himself.

"She truly is," Dorian continued, as if sensing the Bull's doubt was just as easy as heating the qunari's bathwater. "She would have come to check on you herself, if not for fear of 'embarrassing the poor dear'." Dorian's impression of Vivienne was truly one of the worst things the Bull had ever heard—and part of why he insisted that the mage would make a terrible spy—but not even that could break the qunari's frown. They sat in silence while Dorian kept working, scrubbing dried blood off of The Iron Bull's skin until the water turned pink and murky, then cleansing the water again and continuing his slow circles across the qunari's body. "She... she wishes she could have done more," he whispered finally. Dorian regretted the words as soon as he felt The Iron Bull's shoulders tense beneath the soap-covered cloth.

"It's not her fault," the Bull finally replied.

"It's not your fault either."

"Isn't it?"

"No," the mage said with enviable certainty. "There's nothing either of us could have done. Stop blaming yourself for things you can't control."

"Couldn't I have done something?" the qunar murmured, his eyes still dead-set on the water in front of his knees. "I thought about dealing with this Qun shit myself, and yet I let the whole damn Inquisition intervene. I could have gone through that eluvian first, and yet I let him lead the charge. I knew the Anchor was killing him, and yet I just... pretended like it wasn't happening. I—"

"Stop it!" Dorian demanded, lifting The Iron Bull's chin so that the qunari's face twisted to meet his, leaving the Bull with no other option than to look into the Dorian's eyes. "Stop blaming yourself! You did everything you could!"

"He blames himself because he wants someone to blame. Like when Vasaad died in the jungle. _Hot, humid, smell of iron and rotting leaves,_ 'meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun' _, all my fault._ But it wasn't your fault. Sometimes things just happen, and you can't do anything to stop them, and that's scary so you blame yourself because then there's a reason and you don't have to be so afraid."

" _VISHANTE KAFFAS_ , COLE! DO YOU EVER KNOCK?!" Dorian screamed.

"I'm sorry. She told me to find you as quickly as I could,” Cole said from the doorway, fiddling with his fingers while he stared at the floor.

"Come on, kid, we talked about the whole using names thing, remember? Who told you to find us?" The Iron Bull asked, the slouch in his spine straightening as he suddenly showed the first signs of interest in anything since their return to Halamshiral. Dorian was rather irked that _this_ was what got the Bull's attention, but progress was progress. 

"Leliana. The Nightingale," Cole answered. "They call her 'The Nightingale', but she's not a real bird. She simply chose the name because it reminds her of a bird she once knew, a lonely brothel-boy from Antiva with a voice as smooth as satin and a love of leather and all that shines.”

" _Vashedan,_ " The Iron Bull swore as he rubbed his face in his hands. "...... Let me grab my pants."

* * *

_"Are you ready to cooperate yet, my pretty little elf?" the demon hissed into his ear, his hot breath sticking to Thel'hen's skin like the Fallow Mire's humidity. Imshael's face twisted into a sick smile as the elf shuddered at the proximity and tried to twist away from him. Thel'hen was bound to a cool metal device by large leather straps across his chest and thighs, a backboard holding his upper body perpendicular to the floor as he sat up with his legs bound to the rest of the bench-like contraption. The stinging of magebane scorching his skin as if his bonds were not leather at all, but rather thousands of tiny fire-ants trying to burrow beneath his flesh._

_"Well, pet?" Imshael cooed. "The continuation of this exercise is entirely unnecessary. Just answer my questions and this will all end."_

_"Mythal,_ las ma atish’an din'an _," Thel'hen croaked as a single burning tear fell down over his chin. He had been strapped to the bench for what felt like hours, forced into a sitting position while his upper legs were fastened flatly on the table._

_"Ugh, this is barely even fun anymore!" the demon whined before turning to the Red Templar standing vigilantly in the corner. "Give him a few more inches."_

_The Templar nodded noiselessly and stepped forward to place his hands on the table's crank. When they had first fastened him to the device, Thel'hen had no clue as to the crank's purpose; he had not even noticed the small platform at the base of the board until the crank was turned and the platform began to rise, pushing his feet up into the air while his thighs remained parallel to the floor. Each time he had refused to answer the demon's questions, Imshael had the platform raised higher, until eventually Thel'hen felt as if his knees must be bent back in their sockets. He wondered which would break first—the restraints or his legs—and could not help but scream as his feet were elevated even further and his knees bent further backwards._

_"Or perhaps I was mistaken!" Imshael grinned as Thel'hen wailed. He ran a pointed finger along Thel'hen's bloodied chest before licking it clean with a smile. The Imshael's hand drifted down to Thel'hen's groin and wrapped around the elf's length as the demon dragged his tongue from Thel'hen's collarbone up to his jaw._

_"No, please—" Thel'hen begged. "Please just stop, please, I can't do this anymore!"_

_"Do try and stay still, won't you?" Imshael murmured. "I just detest it when my toys try to squirm..."_

"Easy, boss, easy!" The Iron Bull bellowed as he pinned the flailing elf's shoulders firmly onto the bed. "Stop moving, dammit! It's just us! You're ok! _Shit,_ I warned 'em that waking up was gonna be rough for you."

"You're going to hurt yourself!" Dorian cried as he held down Thel'hen's kicking legs. "I'll have you know that I excel at entropy spells and I _will_ paralyze you if you don't _calm down!"_ But Thel'hen could not calm down. The hands on his shoulders did not belong to The Iron Bull. The smell filling the room was not that of fresh elfroot, but that of candied dates. He had to escape, he had to get out, he had to _—_

The paralysis spell drained every ounce of energy from Thel'hen's body as his limbs fell limply back on the table. His eye still raced wildly around the room, his chest shaking as he hyperventilated, but the immobilization allowed The Iron Bull to grab the elf's face and look directly into his eyes.

"It's okay, _k_ _adan_ , you're alright," the Bull repeated softly with an evenness in his voice that seemed impossible given the current situation. "We're back at the Winter Palace. You're safe. Nobody's going to hurt you. Dammit, Dorian, I thought you told Leliana to get us as soon as he showed signs of consciousness!"

"I _did!"_ Dorian insisted from somewhere outside of Thel'hen's view. "The healers said he wouldn't likely wake up before tomorrow!"

The Bull brushed his hand through the elf's hair as he continued murmuring reassurances until, eventually, Thel'hen's breathing slowed. His wandering eyes found his partner's faces—Bull's consciously calm and Dorian's wildly worried—and held onto them until finally his heart stopped racing. As he felt Dorian's spell begin to diminish he swallowed dryly and tried to speak, but only managed to croak out a sob.

"Hey boss, it's okay," The Iron Bull promised as he helped the elf slowly sit up in bed. Dorian brought a small glass of water to the Thel'hen's lips, from which he drank greedily before attempting to speak again.

"I'm sorry, I thought... I thought I was..." Thel'hen tried to say as he sat propped up against his right arm, but his tongue refused to voice the fears he had felt as if merely murmuring they may make them true.

"Yeah, I figured that would happen," the qunari replied, not even needing the elf to finish his sentence. "But you don't need to apologize. It's not your fault. You're safe now, I promise."

"I'm so sorry we weren't here when you first woke, _amatus_ ," Dorian apologized with an intensely guilt-ridden look on his face. "The healers told us we had to bathe before being in here, on account of all the dried blood and everything... if I thought there was any chance you'd be awake so soon I would have threatened to add their blood to the mix."

"It's alright," Thel'hen said with a grimace, and began to raise a hand to rub his forehead. The hand never arrived. Tightly wound bandages around the remnants of his left arm restricted the majority of his movement, and thanks to the healers it was this restriction—as opposed to searing pain—that caused the elf to look down. He sat there in shock for what felt like forever until finally clearing his throat.

"Shit..." he said finally. "Well.... I guess that solves the Anchor problem."

" _'I guess that solves the Anchor problem'_?!" Dorian shrieked as he practically dove on top of Thel'hen, knocking him back onto the bed as he crushed the elf in an embrace. "You nearly _died_ , you enigmatic imbecile! If you _ever_ try anything even remotely like that ever again I will _personally_ resurrect you just so that I can kill you all over again!"

" _Vhenan_... my ribs..." Thel'hen wheezed as the Bull pried the raging Tevinter off of him.

"Well, technically you _did_ die," the qunari admitted once Dorian had stopped fuming. "Your heart stopped. Vivienne got to us pretty soon after and was able to stabilize you, but for a few moments there you actually were... gone."

"Oh... fuck.... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

" _'DIDN'T MEAN TO WORRY US'_ ?!" Dorian screeched again, but the Bull managed to grab the 'vint in time before he flung himself back onto the other mage.

"It's alright, we'll yell at you about it later," The Iron Bull chuckled as Dorian spluttered a combination of unnecessarily intellectual insults and some likely colourful phrases in Tevine. "We're just glad to have you home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... they had us in the first half, not gonna lie
> 
> Also for anyone who's interested, the device described in the flashback scene is called the Tiger Chair/Bench.


	6. The Last Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canticle of Andraste 7:12

“[He] learned to bury grief beneath duty. Easier to do that, it seemed, before grief’s edge had been honed by love and friendship. But regret had a weight of its own, and he wished he’d seen that sooner.”

- _Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights_

* * *

Dorian had once said that the only thing his mother loved more than a wedding was a funeral, and Halward Pavus was positively, indubitably, undeniably dead. The magister's body lie on a marble slab within the Pavus' Qarinus estate, the glamour shimmering around his body replacing the waxy-sheen of a newly dead corpse with the soft glow of a man merely drifting to sleep. The whole affair was quite serene, rather obeisant, and oddly beautiful. Dorian hated it.

"At least the wine is nice," Thel'hen murmured, as if reading Dorian's thoughts. The quartet playing behind them finished their solemn song with a long fading note before beginning another piece. The guests filling his family's halls had alternated between giving Dorian either manufactured condolences or complete and utter avoidance all evening; he much preferred the later.

"Ah, yes, do be careful with that," Dorian warned him with a smile as the music began again. "Aqua Magus, if my nose does not deceive me, and it rarely ever does. A favourite of many well-to-do Magisters with all too much money and far too little time."

" _Aqua Magus,_ " the elf repeated slowly. "Tevene, I presume?"

"Undoubtedly," the other mage replied as he nodded politely to some magister, whose name he could not be bothered to remember, as she passed them by. "A rather pedestrian phrase most simply translated as 'magic water.' The spirit's infused with lyrium, you see," Dorian continued as he gently took the glass from Thel'hen's hand just as the elf began to raise the ornate crystal vessel to his lips.

"Oh... that would certainly explain the tingly feeling."

"Indeed," Dorian agreed with a hint of amusement. "Perhaps you should lie down? This wretched affair is almost over, and as much as I would enjoy the scandal resulting from me literally carrying you off to bed, I think it would be best if you managed to make it there yourself." Thel'hen's brow creased slightly, as if weighting his options.

"Are you sure you'll be alright? I don't want to leave you in this viper den all alone."

"It's a viper _pit_ , love, and you needn't worry. In Tevinter, one is taught to tame snakes before learning how to walk."

"Even still—"

"Really, _amatus,_ I'll be fine," Dorian reassured. "All of these distant relatives and lickspittle magisters can only gawk at a corpse for so long."

By the time the rest of the guests had but departed, the sun was well on its way below the horizon. As was custom—for Tevinter was nothing if not a stickler for upholding outdated observances—Aquinea and Dorian processed side by side to the Pavus family sepulchre where Halward would lie until his cremation on the morrow. The sculpted walls were lined with alcoves, every indentation in the walls housing an urn of his ancestors, their names etched in stone above their ashes. A place in the mausoleum’s marble walls had already been carved for the late magister, the torchlight flickering over the letters:

Halward Pavus

_bonorum omnium optimum virum_

Dorian felt sick.

"Must you insist on being so overtly ostentatious?" Aquinea's lips pursed into a fine line as she avoided his gaze, though allowing her dark eyes to stray towards Thel'hen's receding form just long enough for Dorian to notice. The elf, Andraste bless him, had insisted on staying until at least the other guests had taken their leave, but now he stood on the top of the hill behind them with one arm wrapped around himself for warmth. It was awfully chilly for a summer evening in Qarinus, now that he thought about it; he had not noticed before. _Ah, mother,_ Dorian sighed despite himself. _You always were so very good at the Game._

"Now, mother, whatever do you mean?" Dorian batted his eyes innocently as the slaves laid Halward's body on the marble slab in the centre of the chamber. _Ah, yes, the Pavus family slaves. Seeing as I'm now the head of house, I'll have to remedy that indiscretion._ "The Inquisitor and I are simply—how would father put it? ah, yes—'dear friends.'" The corner of his mother's finely painted mouth twitched ever so slightly, and internally Dorian could not help but beam with pride. Aquinea took a perfunctory sip of her wine before speaking again, the blue liquid glinting in the flickering candlelight.

"For as long as we could manage, your father and I tried to be accommodating of your... peculiar tastes." 

"What, cock?" Dorian asked briskly as he made a show of smoothing his moustache. "It is an acquired taste, I'll admit. Maybe if you gave it a few more tries you'd have managed to make a more satisfactory son." The snide comment was rewarded by the back of his mother's hand, the abruptness and force of the strike leaving Dorian in a momentary daze as his face stung and his lip split.

"How uncouth," he murmured as he brushed a thumb over his mouth, pulling his hand back to reveal a small smear of blood across his finger. His mother simply straightened again as if nothing had occurred, eyes set dead ahead as she produced a small ornately carved box from the many folds of her gown, which was such a dark shade of purple that the only thing distinguishing the garment from black were the flecks of white light slowly swirling across the fabric like constellations just before dawn.

"Now what's this?" Dorian jibbed as he took the box from his mother's outstretched hand. She turned on her heel, though not inelegantly, her voice echoing coldly behind her as she receded up the sepulchre steps. 

"It's your inheritance."

His 'inheritance', as it were, was not what he had been expecting. The box, which was carved with the Pavus insignia along with a variety of Tevene so ancient that even he could not understand it, opened to reveal a small chamber lined with deep mauve velvet, the fabric interior cushioning the blue crystal within.

"A _memory crystal?"_ Dorian swore under his breath. "How in Andraste's name did you get your hands on this, Halward? Or is this one more heirloom you never thought your heir need know about?" He glared at Halward's corpse, the glamour over which had started to flicker in places, as if fully expecting his father to sit up and reply outright. Dorian's narrowed eyes returned to the crystal, thoroughly debating his options. Did he even want to know what his father had to say? Did he even care?

 _Damn it all._ He touched the crystal, and immediately blue cracks of electricity coursed across its surface as a projection of his father sprung to life before him.

_"Dorian."_ The voice still made Dorian wince. The projection of his father stood as austere and august as ever, the turquoise facsimile of his father suddenly making Dorian feel rather small. He took a step back besides himself, cursing his cowardice under his breath. His father was dead. _Dead_. His cold corpse was lying as still as the stone supporting him, without breath or heartbeat or cognizance. He was _dead._ There was no reason to be afraid.

"If you are hearing this message, then my suspicions were correct and... well, I need not explain to you why you are hearing this. Perhaps you are angry with me for sending you away to the Exalted Council, or perhaps you don't care, but I cannot have you here for what is to come. I am a man of many, _many_ regrets, but ensuring your safety when I die will not be one of them. I... I should have ensured your safety sooner. Your safety from the Magisterium, from Alexius, from... from me. I know I was not the father you wanted, nor the father you deserved. I do not know if I ever could have been the father you needed me to be, and for that I am sorry. Pride has plagued the Pavus family for centuries, but now, as I record this message for you... I wish to give it up. I wish to apologize for all of my shortcomings. Giving up my pride... that is my last sacrifice.

I suspect by now you have learned that I have kept you as my heir. My seat in the Magisterium is yours, my son. I leave a complicated legacy, but perhaps in time you will understand my decisions and my failings. Time grants wisdom if you let it, and I fear I had far too little of both. I hope you will die a wiser man than I. I know that this is all too little too late, but perhaps... perhaps you can find it in your heart to forgive me, although we both know I do not deserve it. I love you, my son."

The image faded away, leaving Dorian alone with the corpse of his father and the ashes of their shared ancestors lining the wall. He stood there, trembling in the flickering firelight, for what felt like an eternity before he was able to speak.

"You odious, abhorrent, pusillanimous _prick!"_ Dorian snarled, the anger boiling beneath his skin as if his very blood were ablaze. “You 'didn't know if you could be the father I needed'? You could have at least _tried!"_

"And 'giving up your pride' my ass!" he spat. "You are as craven in death as you were in life! Don't think that your empty words mean anything, _father._ If you cared, if you truly, _truly_ cared, you wouldn't have waited until now to... to tell me..." Despite all the anger he had felt moments ago, Dorian suddenly found his voice cracking as a sob clambered its way through his lungs and up his throat. Water burned behind his eyes and he shook his head angrily, as if willing the tears to evaporate before they even managed to touch his skin.

_broken glass blanketing a mahogany floor_

_the slave boy's empty eyes staring listlessly at the ceiling_

_blood and wine mixing on_ _~~his father's~~ __Halward's robes_

_"Get out."_

_"You are a monster."_

_"And you are no son of mine."_

"I... there was a time I would have done _anything_ for you. Anything for your attention, anything for you praise, anything for your _bloody approval_. And the one time I disobey, the one time I refuse to fall in line..." the whisper trailed off, leaving Dorian and his eidetic audience in silence before Dorian managed to swallow the lump forming in his throat. "No," he continued softly, "it doesn't matter now. You made yourself clear enough the last time we both stood in this estate's halls."

Dorian paused to steady his breath, the sound of his own heart pounded rapidly in his ears as his face burned with rage. After what seemed like an eternity his shaking lungs finally placated to the point where Dorian could continue. Although the sentence began softly, the composure in the mage's voice did not last for long.

"So _no_ , I will not forgive you," he continued. "If you didn't have the strength to make amends in life, you don't deserve that peace in death. Don't you think for a _second_ that your death fixes _this,"_ he finished in a hiss, gesturing swiftly between Halward's motionless corpse and his own rigid body. "Mind you, I feel all the better for it, but you don't get the privilege of resting peacefully, thinking you have done _anything_ even _remotely_ close to apologizing. Make no mistake, _Halward._ I am no son of yours."

He turned sharply on his heel, extinguishing the torchlight with a prompt twist of his wrist as he ascended the cool crypt stairs. He turned at the final step to take one final look into the darkness he left behind him, knowing deep in his heart that no matter how tightly he closed the doors behind him, that darkness would still remain. He glanced down at the ornate box, its contents shaking slightly in his trembling hand, and snapped the lid closed before tossing the heirloom back down the stairs.

"And I will be a better man than you, _'father'_. I promise you that. I will use every moment of my time as a Magister tearing down you 'legacy.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's it been, 3 months? Yeah, so um, sorry about that. Was it because my job suddenly started up again and I began working 40hr weeks? Maybe. Was it because school started up again and I had to move back to university despite having only one in-person class? Maybe. Was it because writing the dialogue in this chapter was like reliving a conversation I had with my own father? _LISTEN HERE BUCKO, IF YA WANNA KEEP YOUR KNEECAPS YOU BEST STOP ASKING SO MANY QUESTIONS, K?_
> 
> Also this series doesn't have a beta so if you find any errors... oops?


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